With the temporary danger I could trust myself to deal, now that I was forewarned. But if they once got an inkling of the truth, I should be the object of their vengeance every minute I remained in Russia, and very possibly afterwards. And I had the greatest possible repugnance against playing the part of quarry for Nihilist bloodhounds to hunt all over Europe.
These considerations and many others wove themselves rapidly into the web of my anxious perplexity as I paced up and down the room, followed by the staring, fright-filled eyes of the despicable Drexel, whose cowardly treachery had caused all the trouble. He was so frightened indeed, that every time I chanced to look at him he would shrink and cower and hang his head in fear.
“You may well be frightened,” I said at length, turning on him; “for I’m thinking whether the safest thing to do is not to put a bullet in your head. Dead men carry no tales.” I spoke with intentional brutality.
“For the love of God don’t do that, your Majesty. It’s not my fault; indeed, indeed it isn’t. Oh, God have mercy on me;” and he shuddered in a veritable paroxysm of terror.
“Are you armed? Turn your pockets out. Quick!” I cried.
The haste with which he complied was almost ludicrous.
“I only carried this for self-protection, your Majesty. You know I have made no attempt to use it,” he said, as he brought a revolver out of an inner pocket.
“Not even to try and protect the woman you were to have married. I know that because I was watching you.”
“Then your Majesty knows I had no chance. I should only have been killed on the spot.”
“Well, and if you had been? Is that a worse death than at the hands of the executioner?”